


(I've been) drowning in sorrow

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Identity Issues, Into the Badlands AU, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Destiny has a funny way of working. Don't lose someone important in its hands.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	(I've been) drowning in sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> For my [prompt party.](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/tagged/blob%27s-prompt-party)
> 
> Prompt was: _I have never seen the Badlands, but I love the batfam. What about an AU with Dick and Jay as mentor-mentee in the Badlands world?_
> 
> [(OG post)](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/post/631248468084768768/hi-congrats-on-100-i-have-a-prompt-for-your)

**(I've been) drowning in sorrow**

_Chasing tomorrow, running away_

_Now you're crossing the borders_

_Sealing tomorrow_

[ _But you're not afraid_ ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtu.be&v=3UJ_z1FtppY)

All he's got is himself, the wet clothes chilling him and the empty spaces in his brain where memories should be. That, and the enclosing walls of the wooden trunk he's been shoved in for some reason or another. It's unclear. 

He keeps banging his closed fists against the wood right in front of his face, hits till the skin over his knuckles splits, red, raw and tender—till he leaves stains of blood that he can't see in near pitch black darkness. He screams and screams and screams and his voice shatters after what feels like a whole life of yelling.

 _Hey,_ a voice that sounds familiar resonates from somewhere among his foggy thoughts and he latches onto it, holds onto it with the desperation of someone about to fall off a cliff, _it's okay, buddy. Breathe—_

He tries to do that, follow what that voice is saying, latches onto the feeling of familiarity that makes him wonder. Who is it? Who can't he remember? Why— 

Pain comes from right over his temple. It irradiates all the way towards his ear, his jaw, the back of his head, until everything is covered by it. It's sharp and shrill and deafening. He closes his eyes trying to ward it off, chokes on a scream, begs the voice to come back.

And then he passes out again.

"Do you know where you are?" a woman more beautiful than anything he can barely think of says. He looks at her, eyes unfocused—he can't clear his vision. He can't see well. "Do you know, dear?"

He tries to open his mouth. His jaw aches something fierce, there's something that feels broken in his head. After a long battle with his everything, his lips finally move.

"Bru—," he stumbles through the sounds. It's all he's able to make. "Bru—ce."

"Those damned traders," someone says from somewhere along the left, almost behind him. Jason tries to turn his head but all he manages is a twitch of his shoulder. "They should know better than to break invaluable goods."

The woman sends a sharp glance towards the direction of the voice.

"He is no such thing. He just needs… care."

"Don't waste our resources on _it,_ " the pronoun is spat with hate and disappointment. "Send it to the abbots. They'll put it down."

He wants to say he doesn't—he doesn't want to be killed. He doesn't want to die.

He— 

Why does the thought ring on empty?

Why does his skin crawl?

"Oh, dear," she says, placing her hands on his cheeks, her eyes boring into his, never looking away. "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."

He can barely blink. His mouth doesn't close shut again. And he knows, he knows what the lady is sorry for. 

When she knocks him out, he thinks it's a small blessing. He doesn't know any other kind.

And then he's emerging in a room surrounded by mirrors that seem to multiply, his image reproduced to visual infinity. There's fire in his veins, in his whole body, fire that's making him boil and burn and—his scream is broken, it's raw, torn somewhere between a beg and a curse. He aches and hurts and he can't close his eyes when in the mirror he can see all his bones realigning under his skin. All his cuts closing, healing. Everything goes back to it's designated place.

His skull rattles and there are sparks in his eyes of pain and explosions. Maybe that explains the scar forming on his temple, getting lost in his hair, coming down to his lip. Maybe that explains the deep scar running down his torso. Maybe that— 

But he can't remember anything. Not even his own damn name. If these are his first minutes of life, he's spending them alone, in pain so strong it feels like he's half-dying all over again. By the time it is all done, he's left a shaking mess on the cold floor, sweating and panting, trying to regain something he's never had. 

He can't look away from the mirrors. There's nowhere else to look at.

From the myriad of images on his right appears a woman. She rings a note of faint familiarity. As it comes, it goes.

"Welcome back, dear," she has a soft smile and her hair sparkles in the light of candles. Is she good? Will she be good? 

She's holding a blanket that she drapes over his exhausted body. It's a stark difference from the pain. It's his first experience of comfort.

"Come," she kneels by his side, helps him sit up, ignores his nakedness as the blanket slides over his skin until he manages to regain control over his hands, enough, at least, to cover himself again. "Let's get you cleaned up. Tonight you will rest. The tiring part will come after."

The woman's name is Talia and he owes her his life. Her eyes betray sadness when days pass and his own name doesn't come to him. Her thumb presses on the center of his forehead, like she's trying to manually will his memories back.

"Give it time," she tells him, "we've given you back your powers. Your mind will follow, soon."

(What he'll never know, not even after everything, is that Talia wasn't following orders. She had risked so much to bring him back, to train him, nurse him back to health, help him reclaim his prime. She had gone out of her way to do it, kept him hidden, a secret, one that put her life on the line.

He'll never know this. Because almost two years after her hands shaped him back into the path towards reclaiming his existence—two years after her saving him, she disappears. There's not a trace of her soft long hair, or her smiles, her wit, her careful eyes, left. Instead he's forced to his knees on rough stone in front of a man who knows no mercy.

There's a sword to his neck. Shackles binding his wrists and ankles.

And the man says:

"You are _mine_ now. _My_ property!"

_You are no one's, Talia had said. She had looked over her shoulder._

"Mark it," the man says, "leave my symbol on its skin."

_No words or symbols can change this. Remember—_ )

The Red Hood, is what everyone's been calling him. Dick smiles upon his own reflection in the mirror, smoothes down the lines of his uniform, stands tall and proud. Next, he grabs his batons, slides them with ease and practice inside the loops built into his belt for this exact purpose. Well, it's not really _his_ belt. It clashes with the vibrant blue of his outfit, the brown of the leather infused with red tones.

Dick wears it as a reminder. A memento. Someone so close and dear to him that he has lost. Someone he trained himself, his little wing, his first successor, his—

There's another reflection in the mirror, of a man dressed in pure black, with haunted eyes and deep shadows carved underneath.

"You miss him," the man says and Dick can't fight the bitter smile the words cause on his face.

"You can say his name, you know," he gives a single step to the side, away from the reflective surface, and begins checking that all his weapons are in place. "Jason. Yes, I miss Jason."

"I'm—"

"Stop it," Dick lifts his head, looks at the other in the eyes, "it's not your fault. I should've been there for him. He would've talked to me. He…"

"No," the man's voice is strangled with emotions they both fight on a good day, "no, it's not your fault. _I_ failed Jason. I should've taught him—"

Anguished shouts come from the outside. Yelling, metal clashing with metal, guttural sounds coming from the soon to be dead. A guard runs into the room, breathing heavily, thick droplets of sweat on their temple. There are bright red stains all over their clothes.

"The League," they say, shaking, "and—and the Red Hood. They—they've broken through our first lines of defences."

"The refugees," Dick barks out walking towards the window. He'll jump out, join the fight. He can't let anyone else die. He can't fail again.

"Tim is with them," the guard rushes through the words, "guiding everyone to the convoys. There are more fighters with him, securing their path."

"Good," there's a single fighter standing in the middle of the field, eerily still. A scarlet beacon with eyes shielded by a hood, lower half of the face covered by a mask. Red like blood, like the blood dripping from the dual swords.

Dick can feel his anger boil.

"Go with Tim, Bruce," he says, perched to jump, "make sure the refugees are safe."

"Dick—"

But Dick's leaping into battle, batons in hand. Unaware destiny's calling.

**Author's Note:**

> Into the Badlands is a beautiful show and I 100% recommend watching it. There's not a thing about it I can complain about.
> 
> If you enjoy martial arts, well written scenes and dialogue, well rounded characters, plus lgtbq+, poc and disabled characters being genuine badasses, _please_ give the show a chance!


End file.
